Somewhere ’round the dime store there was a kind shore, when poetry paused in eloquence and practiced what it said in store,
Bored beyond the musty surface and wondered at a purpose.
The more you grow the more you know you don’t know shit; shrugged shoulders go,
Carrying six plastic bags stacked and packed with who knows what,
He didn’t have three bucks for a hot dog,
And the way he shuffled along you’d know his days were long.
Went to leave after asking thrice,
How could a decent being not take own advice,
So stopped and plied the better part of a pack of cigarettes,
So the guy on the street might just have a meal yet.
He was nice with kind eyes and a smile that was missing teeth,
he’d been a drug addict before he found Jesus and he knew God had saved his legs from the sepsis.
Revolved in a rememberance of over-arching anger,
Consumed with danger and worry for a missing girl,
Who used to hang at steps to which she no longer turned,
He had his inclinations as to what happened,
Crafted plans to protect himself from the bad hands that harbored hate’s demands in the lands of neon brilliance that glowed in excess’s reprimand.
Something simple, but still feel like a pimple because of all I can accomplish, I’ve not managed near a fistful,
Blazed a trail of brilliance but it’d rather be undone,
Turning precious air once to carbon in the lungs.